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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24509620">Break a Leg</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherGallavichLove/pseuds/AnotherGallavichLove'>AnotherGallavichLove</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whatsastory/pseuds/Whatsastory'>Whatsastory</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Shameless (US)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ian is a little shit, M/M, Soft!Mickey, hurt!Ian</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:00:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,486</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24509620</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherGallavichLove/pseuds/AnotherGallavichLove, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whatsastory/pseuds/Whatsastory</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if his room hadn't been on the second floor, with sunshine streaming in and heat filtering up through the floorboards. Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if he'd have been able to get a proper shower. And maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't have been so bad if he could get up and go down the fucking stairs without a pair of crutches. And fucking maybe it would have been better if his fucking leg wasn't broken in multiple places.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>255</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Break a Leg</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ian stared at the cracked ceiling above his bed with one arm twisted behind his head and the other tapping rhythmic nonsense onto the skin of his belly. He was bored, to say the least. He was never one to sit around on his ass all day, and once the opportunity arose, he realized just why he'd always been so ready to hustle. </p><p>Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if his room hadn't been on the second floor, with sunshine streaming in and heat filtering up through the floorboards. Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if he'd have been able to get a proper shower. And maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't have been so bad if he could get up and go down the fucking stairs without a pair of crutches. And fucking maybe it would have been better if his fucking leg wasn't broken in multiple places. </p><p>It was Mickey's fault. Okay, that's not fair. It was mostly Mickey's fault. Ian had a small part to play in it. Or, a big part, whatever. The point was that if Mickey had been able to have a conversation like an adult and not an emotionally stunted thirteen year old girl, maybe he wouldn't have been bed bound, and crutch bound, and out of work, and thirsty, and fuck. </p><p>"Mickey," he yelled, and listened for the tell tale sign of Mickey's booted feet stomping up the stairs, but it didn't come. So he called again. “Mickey!” </p><p>He grinned when he heard an exaggerated sigh, a cuss just above the breath and a chair scuffing against the linoleum floor of the kitchen. </p><p>“Yeah?” Mickey yelled up, apparently unwilling to traverse the steps, only to undoubtedly be sent back down.</p><p>“Come up here,” Ian called, ignoring the fact that Mickey could easily hear him from downstairs. It was the least he could do - walk up the stairs - considering he was the reason why it now took Ian about five to ten times longer to do so than it normally would. </p><p>There was another sigh, which was finally followed by the stomping boots, growing closer until Mickey was standing in the doorway, his eyebrows raised, index finger scratching at the left arch. </p><p>“Yeah?” </p><p>In response, Ian placed his hands next to himself on the bed, and made a slight show of pushing himself up to sit, being much more careful not to hit the leg against anything than he really had to be. </p><p>“Can I have a glass of water?” Ian finally asked, and Mickey’s lips parted, as if he was about to drop something that any other couple would consider verbal abuse, but then he closed his mouth. </p><p>“That it?” He settled on, his tone clearly stating what Ian knew he was thinking. ‘That it? You called me up here for a glass of water? When we both know damn well the glasses are downstairs, and I can hear you perfectly fucking fine from there?’</p><p>Ian just nodded once. </p><p>“Yeah, sorry,” but the sorry was tacked onto the end without much meaning - like when you bump into someone, not any thought placed into the word. To be fair, Mickey couldn’t be too angry - if it wasn’t for him, Ian would be perfectly capable of getting his own glass of water. </p><p>Mickey let another sigh escape his nose, and then he nodded once and turned around, clearly annoyed as he muttered something foul that had the corner of Ian’s mouth twitching upwards. He listened to about three seconds of Mickey stomping down the creaky staircase, five of a kitchen cabinet opening, and the tap being turned on, and then another three seconds of him stomping back up and into their room before he placed the glass onto the nightstand next to Ian, a few drops of water escaping over the edge, and down onto the wooden surface. </p><p>“You good?” Ian nodded, fighting the way that his lip wanted to twitch in amusement. Mickey sighed, and turned back around to leave the room, though Ian was quick to catch his wrist, pulling him back, looking up expectedly. Mickey looked down at him, sighing, but gave in and gave his lips a peck before pulling his hand out of his grasp, and leaving, mumbling something that sounded a lot like ‘needy motherfucker.’ </p><p>With the retreating sounds of Mickey’s footsteps, Ian went back to tapping away at his belly, other arm still slung around the back of his head, and boredom resurfacing. It wasn’t too much to ask, he thought, for a little companionship. He assumed that when he called for Mickey it would have at least bought him a few minutes of his time, but apparently he was wrong. So, he did what any person in his position would do; he called for him again. </p><p>“Mickey!” </p><p>“Jesus Christ,” he heard, a low rumble of a voice that certainly wasn’t meant for his ears. “What?” </p><p>The thing about Ian was, he had good hearing. He was the middle child of six, and thanks to that, he had to adapt to being sneaky. And hearing others when they were snooping around and getting into trouble. But in that moment, he wasn’t going to lead on just how well he could hear. </p><p>“Mickey!” He called again, just for the sake of doing so. Just to maybe get to catch a glimpse at the object of his need. </p><p>“Son of a bitch,” Mickey grumbled, and Ian had to steel himself from grinning when he heard the tell tale tromp of stairs creaking. </p><p>“Yes, Ian,” he asked when he rounded the corner and stood in the doorway once more. </p><p>“Hi,” Ian grinned, “I think I wanna get a shower now.” </p><p>Mickey’s eyebrow gave a little twitch, a little quirk of confusion as he shrugged his slumped shoulders. </p><p>“Okay?” </p><p>“Well, I need you to wrap the cast. Can’t get it wet,” Ian explained and pointed to his leg as if Mickey didn’t know exactly what he was talking about. “I could do it on my own, but what if I fall going downstairs for the supplies? I’m supposed to keep it elevated, y’know.” </p><p>Ian thought that he could see Mickey’s jaw clench in a way that it rarely did, at least towards Ian. It was even more rare that he took a second to think before answering him, but now he did - even if it was barely a second. Then he grumbled something and turned around, the sound of him taking the stairs sounding as if he were a hundred pounds more than he was. Ian grinned to himself as he went back to drumming his fingers on his stomach, waiting for the steps to come back. </p><p>Soon enough, Mickey was back in the doorway, plastic and tape in his hand; he walked into the room and threw the items onto the bed, the roll of tape nearly bumping Ian’s boot. </p><p>“Mick - “</p><p>“Oh, shut the fuck up, princess, you’re wearing the boot,” he bit, but the second afterwards, he thumbed his temple, teeth scratching against his bottom lip. “Want me to do it?” Ian gave him a nod, the edge of his mouth twitching with amusement as his fiancé sat down on the edge of the bed and took the boot off of his foot, throwing it to the side and replacing it with the plastic - not nearly as neat at Ian would have done it, but Ian was too focused on the look on his face to complain, even if he did deserve it. His eyebrows were furrowed as he taped the top and the bottom, making sure that there weren’t any gaps. “There. You good?” </p><p>“Yeah, just turn on the water and make sure it’s not too hot or cold,” Ian asked, the look on his face not sporting much mischief, but his brain was swimming in it. Should he feel bad about making Mickey’s life a living hell? Maybe. But as much as Ian loved him, he did punch him in the face and as a result broke his leg, so did he? Meh. </p><p>“Christ, man,” Mickey shook his head, but to Ian’s surprise, before he stood up to do just that, he reached for his hand and gave it a quick squeeze, disappearing into the bathroom before Ian could register the twinge of guilt in his gut. </p><p>Ian heard the splattering of the shower against the dirty white ceramic of the tub and shed his t-shirt. He threw it in a haphazard way toward the laundry shoot in the hall, and made a mental note to ask Mickey to throw in a load at some point- the guilt simmered low in the back of his mind, but a rogue dull thud of pain in his leg wiped it away in an instant. </p><p>Mickey came back into the room shaking out his arm that apparently had been caught in the spray, and wiped it on his jeans before holding out Ian’s crutches to grab. </p><p>“Need some clean clothes,” Ian mumbled, though the playful irritation that laced his words earlier had fallen away and was replaced by something almost apologetic. </p><p>“Anything else, your highness?” Mickey asked as he held his arms out in a protective way that a mother might coddle their newly walking infant. </p><p>“Kinda hungry,” Ian shrugged and lurched his way to the bathroom. </p><p>“What do you want me to ma-”</p><p>“...But I’m down to order a pizza or some shit,” Ian interjected, deciding to grant Mickey some reprieve. </p><p>“Okay, whatcha want on it? I’ll order it while you wash your stinky ass,” Mickey smiled, and Ian shouldered him playfully. </p><p>“Surprise me.” </p><p>Showering in this new way of life was decidedly something Ian didn’t want to get used to. Though he should have been taking a bath, laying down and keeping his leg up and out of the way of the water, he refused. It didn’t make him feel clean enough, and despite Mickey’s many protests, Ian had won out and was granted “permission” with only a little bit of bitching from his other half. </p><p>Getting out was even harder, and he should have had help to keep his balance, but again he resisted, trying to keep at least a little bit of his independence (and trying to save his favors from Mickey to more important things like bringing him unneeded glasses of water). </p><p>Ian managed to get out of the tub with only a little bit of wobbling, but he had stupidly left his crutches by the door, and his boot was still in the bedroom. With a few grunts of effort, he landed, sitting on top of the toilet lid. </p><p>“Mickey!” </p><p>This time there was no verbal complaint, but he could tell that the steps making their way up the staircase seemed heavier than they needed to. </p><p>“Boot’s in the room. I forgot a shirt,” he said when Mickey showed up in the doorway. If there had been any annoyance on Mickey’s face, it faded at the sound of his fiancé’s slightly beaten voice. As much as Ian liked to mess around with Mickey, and make him do things for him - the reality was that breaking a leg made for a difficult time - he couldn’t do a third of the things he used to do. Sometimes it made him feel like an infant. </p><p>Mickey disappeared, and came back with the boot and one of his own shirts - an old The Who shirt with the sleeves cut off. </p><p>“Need to do laundry, man,” Mickey let him know as he brought Ian’s hand to his shoulder to help him keep his balance as they joined forces on the task of getting Ian dressed. “You good?” He asked then, handing Ian his crutches and taking half a step back. Ian looked down at his own torso, shrugging. </p><p>“Couldn’t have gotten me one of Liam’s shirts? I think it might fit better.” </p><p>“You know what, fuck you, okay?” Mickey shook his head, and Ian couldn’t help but drink in the sight of his smile - the one that was just saved for him. “We both know I could kick your fucking ass.” </p><p>“Yeah? You wanna prove it?” Ian used his crutch to poke one of Mickey’s ass cheeks through his jeans as he turned around to walk out of the bathroom. </p><p>“Calm down, you break your other leg, I ain’t looking after your ass.” Ian smiled as he watched him disappear down the stairs to accept the pizza delivery, but once he was out of sight, the smile faded. It was a lie - if Ian was dumb enough to break two legs at the same time, Mickey would look after him without a single question or complaint - well, that wasn’t true - but he would do it without a doubt or hesitation, that much was true. Maybe Ian should give him a break. </p><p>The long and short of it was- Ian did not end up giving him a break. He wanted to, really he did (kinda) but the reality of his situation was, well, he needed the help whether he was fucking with Mickey or not. </p><p>So Mickey brought him up his food to eat in bed. Sat with him as they chewed through extra cheese and pepperoni. Went back downstairs to grab napkins. Went back downstairs to get a drink. Went back downstairs to tuck away the leftovers in the fridge. Went back downstairs for Ian's forgotten pain medication. Went up and down and back up only to go back down so many times that Ian lost count. And at the end of the day, when Mickey was sliding himself between the sheets with a tired sigh, Ian only felt worse. </p><p>"Thanks for... you know," Ian said as he turned toward the center of the bed, catching Mickey's profile in the dingy yellowed light cast in from the street. </p><p>"Mhmm. Sure. All those steps though? My ass is fucking singing." </p><p>"Yeah? Well, gotta keep it tight. Power bottom and all," Ian teased, and was delighted when Mickey laughed. </p><p>"You're a fucking dick," Mickey smiled and turned to face Ian. </p><p>"That's why you love me, isn't it? My 'fucking dick'?" </p><p>"Eh. It's okay I guess," Mickey dead panned, but laughed again when Ian smacked his naked chest. "Nah man, it's just a perk." </p><p>Ian grinned delicately and almost sadly, the weight of his torture settling nastily in his belly. Really, he shouldn't have put Mickey through the ringer. Yeah, he fucked up. But Ian fucked up, too. He would be better the next day, he promised himself. Only...</p><p>When he woke up to the late morning sun, he was alone. At first it didn’t bother him - he figured that Mickey was in the bathroom, or downstairs, but when he called his name, no one answered. The beaten up alarm clock on the side table told him that it was only eight thirty - late enough for all of his siblings to be out of the house and going on with their day, but certainly early enough that Mickey didn’t have a reason to be. </p><p>With slightly more huffing and puffing than necessary, as well as some ‘woe is me’ attitude swallowing his soul, he got his crutches and made his way down into the kitchen without further injury - albeit slowly and clumsily. He managed to get himself a glass of water and swallow his bipolar medication, as well as the pain pills. </p><p>The minutes ticked by without any sign from Mickey - Ian could text him, but the petty side of him didn’t want to. He stumbled his way upstairs again, went to the bathroom, then brushed his teeth - by the time he was back in the bedroom, he had been awake for a solid half an hour, and his phone still didn’t show any notifications. </p><p>Was this how it was going to be? Was this another Byron situation? Ian pissed Mickey off, so he left without any communication? </p><p>The thoughts that he had had last night of giving Mickey a break now made Ian want to laugh - he loved him, that would never change - but honestly? It was all Mickey’s fault that Ian’s leg was broken, and that he needed help, and now he just… what? Left? Went to the Alibi? Went on a hike? The last one was highly unlikely, but the thought of Mickey having the ability to do so made the petty cloud in Ian’s stomach grow further. </p><p>As another fifteen minutes passed, with Ian resting on his bed, he realized something - he was bored. He didn’t just rely on Mickey for physical help, he relied on him for his company - more now than before, since he really couldn’t be bothered to leave the house unless he absolutely needed to. </p><p>Mickey had left without saying anything, and Ian still fucking missed him. God damn it. </p><p>In order to distract himself, Ian once again made the trip down the stairs, this time falling back into the couch’s soft embrace, before he reached for the remote, flipping through the channels. The brainless reality television distracted him for about three minutes before the front door opened, and he could hear the tell-tale thumps of Mickey’s boots on the wooden floorboards. </p><p>“Ah, hey, man - you’re up,” he said, a smile on his face as he walked into the living room. Ian frowned, the cloud of annoyance and pettiness fading. </p><p>“Yeah,” he replied, as Mickey made his way towards the kitchen. “Where you been?” It was a stupid question, considering the plastic bags he was heaving up onto the kitchen island. The words were on his tongue - ‘I had to wake up alone. Why didn’t you make me breakfast?’ but even with the current circumstances, he couldn’t bring himself to be that kind of a partner. Christ. Never. </p><p>“Didn’t plan on it taking this long, thought you’d still be asleep, man, my bad,” Mickey explained, emptying the bags, item by item. Juice. Milk Cereal. Pancake mix. Wait. No. Ian’s favourite juice. The oatmilk that Ian liked. Ian’s preferred cereal. Ian’s favourite pancake mix. </p><p>“You buy all this shit for me?” Ian asked carefully, voice a lot more meek than he had ever heard himself. </p><p>“What? No.” He said it too quickly, a little too punchy and Ian smiled. </p><p>“No? So tell me, Mick. Name one thing in those bags that’s your favorite.” </p><p>Mickey looked at him with his lips in a flat, pressure white line, and fire in his eyes. It was a challenge, a little ‘don’t push me,’ look, but Ian never was one to back down from a challenge. </p><p>“Knew it was for me,” he grinned, and was met in turn with a raised middle finger. </p><p>“Fuck ever. So I got you some shit. Fucking sue me.” </p><p>“You love me,” Ian singsonged in a way that he knew would get under Mickey’s skin- a tone of voice that he’d been perfecting for years and years, cultivated specifically to be nails on the chalkboard that was Mickey’s eardrums. </p><p>“No I don’t,” Mickey said and raised his eyebrows in a meaningless warning. </p><p>“Yes you do. Can’t convince me otherwise. You love me and you wanna take care of me.” </p><p>Mickey’s answer was to make a lewd tug of his hand near the waist of his pants and shrug him off. And that was just pure, unfiltered Mickey, and Ian loved it. Loved that after all of those years he was still the bitch slapping, shit talking piece of south side trash he fell for when he was fifteen. Ian didn’t have a right to hold anything over Mickey’s head. He knew what he signed up for. Literally begged for it in the past. </p><p>“I love you, you know,” Ian told him sincerely. </p><p>Mickey stood up from where he was stocking the fridge, ran his tongue over his lower lip and shrugged his shoulders. </p><p>“Yeah, I know. Love you, too.” </p><p>Yeah, he didn’t have a right to be mad at all. They had both hurt each other countless times, both physically and emotionally - it wasn’t right, and they would continue to work on it - but maybe it was okay that they weren’t perfect. They were better. Especially considering the way that they had grown up. </p><p>Ian made his way around the kitchen island, wrapping his arms around Mickey’s waist from behind, placing his chin on his shoulder. </p><p>“The fuck are you doing?” Mickey tensed up - but Ian could hear the difference in between the real protests and the teasing protests. This was the latter. Ian hummed, lifting his head to replace his chin with his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to the soft skin of Mickey’s shoulder. </p><p>“Just…” he mumbled, voice muffled. “‘precciating you.” The tension in Mickey’s body melted away as he let himself lean against Ian’s. </p><p>“Yeah, yeah. I appreciate you, too, or whatever. Now get off me so I can make your lazy ass something to eat.”</p>
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